To be a woman, to feel like on...fragments of thought, not even a word.
There are ways to fulfil a fantasy. Languidly I fall from the edge. Come, teach me your ways, and fill in the clefts otherwise empty. Come, stay and do not perish inside me. I see comfort in the arms no longer void; although they stretch out they squeeze beyond form and sound. Under my sealed eyelids I capture your most beautiful ogle. Without you none of my kisses are; and neither Klimt, Boudelaire nor Mozart have never known how it is like.
The fallen and trouble paradise…who cares? The hell with the nouns that compose this world. No more touches, but strokes from the high notes, convex. The approving foliage, the flash through the pine crowns, is in position. My shouting whisper doesn’t have to be named, well…it is useless to shout, otherwise the charm will fade away. The prickly bulge, fostered inside, locked in a brief yet intense form, where your incandescent glans tests and smacks the dungeon like a devoted and blind mole. Exploded!
Drip your name inside of me: you’re overflowing! Leave me flooded.
You reach the crest, caterpillars and butterflies.
Resting on your elbow, you stare at me now. There is a way to light my eyes.
And leave me like this: a painting, counterfeiting my name, on the lawn under the pine needles.
I am no longer the one I used to be, and I will never be again.
Without erectness, let the world wait!
And leave me there, celebrated, anointed and dignified icon:
Your pollinated Orchid.

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